


It's a New Year for Everyone

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, New Years Eve, also john throws a punch, it's a kiss, kiss, yay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:10:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John was engaged(was), the flat is no longer occupied, and Sherlock is no longer 'dead'. Also it's New Years Eve so go figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small warning: I'm shit for British slang, and violence isn't really my forte.

**JULY 10**  
  
I proposed. She said yes. You would hate her. She's so normal. **JW**  
  
 **AUGUST 1**  
  
Mary changed her mind. She said I'm not the right man. **JW**  
  
 **OCTOBER 31  
**  
Happy Halloween, Sherlock. Wish you were here to see. **JW**  
  
 **NOVEMBER 1  
**  
Mrs. Hudson's birthday was today. She's doing better now. Her hip's almost fully healed. **JW**  
  
 **NOVEMBER 11**  
  
Happy Remembrance Day. **JW**  
  
 **DECEMBER 25**  
  
Merry Christmas. I bought you a new scarf, I'll leave it where I always do. **JW**  
  
 **DECEMBER 31**  
  
Happy New Year, I'll go see you soon. **JW**  
  
John tossed his mobile on the bed as he dug around in his closet for a warmer jumper. It was cold and starting to snow so he didn't end up freezing solid outside. It'd been more than year now and he's made a bad habit of sending text messages to Sherlock's mobile phone on all of the holidays, even though he knew there wouldn't be anyone to read them anymore. The phone buzzed from where it sat on the neatly flattened, blanketed bed and he looked over his shoulder barely giving it a second thought. That is, until he saw the contact name on the screen.  
  
  
That sounds swell and all but please  don't. **SH**  
  
His mind was blank for a moment but then a bud of hope started in him. The bud never bloomed when he realized they must have reactivated the number. It was probably just some confused stranger.  
  
Sorry, wrong number. **JW**  
  
He shoved the mobile into his pocket and headed downstairs and out the complex's doors. It went off again when he was inside a cab he'd finally managed to hale.  
  
No, you have the right one. **SH**  
  
Apparently not if I'm getting replies. **JW**  
  
Almost immediately a reply popped up on the screen in his hand.  
  
No, this is the right number. **SH**  
  
Not for who I was thinking of. **JW**  
  
I understand being dim and all, but to this extent? John, you're making me look bad here. **SH**  
  
"Never told you my name..." John trailed off as the cabbie dropped him at his desired location. He pocketed the mobile and walked in the brisk cold until he reached one of his most visited spots of anywhere besides his apartment and work; Sherlock.  
  
God did he miss him. He'd tried for ages to get over it. Going to his therapist, getting dates, even having an engagement with a lovely woman named Mary. But she just as quickly called it off thinking John wasn't the right man for her.  
  
John crouched on the ground in front of him. There was little to no snow on the ground which was odd but he didn't mind either way.  
  
"Happy New Year, Sherlock. Too bad you've missed it." He laughed sadly and wiped at his nose, thinking back to his first, and only, New Year with the man. It'd been oddly joyful considering how detached Sherlock always acted. John would trade anything for those days to come back.  
  
He stayed like that for a while until his bones started to ache from the cold and he had to get up.  
  
"See you soon." He smiled sadly and sniffed, eyes lingering on the dark headstone and re-reading the name. He must have read it a thousand times before yet he couldn't help it.  
  
As he walked away , he checked his mobile again which had been vibrating annoyingly in his pocket.  
  
It's been quite a while hasn't it? **SH**  
I lost my key, can I borrow yours? **SH**  
Never mind. I picked the lock. **SH**  
The place looks dreadful from what I can see. **SH**  
Where's Mrs. Hudson gone off to? **SH**  
I was right, it's so boring here, and empty. **SH**  
Why have you been gone so long? Were you on a vacation? **SH**  
  
He angrily deleted each message before he's even completely read them. John was pissed. Royally pissed.  
  
Until he read the last one.  
  
I miss you. **SH**  
  
A sort of quiet washed over him. Not the angry quiet that fueled fear, not the silence that showed shock or pain. But a certain sort of stillness enveloped him as he looked down at the mobile, eyes running over the simple characters as if they were a secret message.  
  
The person knew things. Stuff John hadn't ever told them. They knew where he used to live. They knew about Mrs. Hudson. They knew he'd been gone a long time(He moved out a few months ago after much persuasion from Pamela). They knew Sherlock had also been 'gone' for a long time. They knew his name. It was obvious it wasn't just a stranger, or they could be working for Mycroft but that chance was very low. For what reason would the oldest of the Holmes be doing this? He dismissed the idea immediately.  
  
Fuck off. **JW**  
  
Oh, how pleasant. I can feel the love, John. **SH**  
  
Very original. It's not like you're the first to do this. **JW**  
  
John put the mobile away in his jacket as he hailed a cab and made his way home. It was nice to be in the warm familiarity of his apartment. He tossed his jacket on the coat rack and toed his shoes off, warming his lungs once again with the warm air. He flipped the telly on after falling back onto the mattress and settled for a news channel that was covering the New Years Eve show. He tried enjoying it. The bands played and the people celebrated. He even saw Greg for a moment which made him laugh. His mobile was going mad though, and annoying the hell out of him. Begrudgingly he went and looked at it.  
  
What do you mean I'm not the first? **SH**  
Are you saying people have been so immature as to pretend to be me on the phone? **SH**  
That's ridiculous, why would they do that? **SH**  
John? **SH**  
Did I say something wrong? **SH**  
Where are you? **SH**  
Tell me where you are. **SH**  
I don't like consulting with Mycroft about things but I will if you don't answer me. **SH**  
John, please. **SH**  
Talking to Mycroft. Hate it. **SH**  
Oh good lord, he's insufferable as usual. **SH**  
I found out where you are... I'm sorry. **SH**  
  
"Oh God." His voice was an undignified tone of slight horror that was very much not-John-Watson. He dropped his mobile and rushed to lock the door. After he was sure all three locks were turned he pressed his back to the thick metal and sighed, sliding down it slowly until his bum hit the floor. Why he was reacting like this, he had no clue. But he knew someone had found Sherlock’s old number, gone to the flat, knew Mycroft, and had knowledge as to where he lived. Maybe it was just him being idiotic, but he thought it best to lock the doors and call the police because of the harassment.  
  
A knock sounded at the door and he scrambled for his mobile. He fumbled it in his fingers before he calmly dialed the numbers.  
  
9-9-9  
  
“John, I know you’re in there. I saw your shadow through the crack.” Not good. Not good, not good not-  
  
Wait a fucking minuet.  
  
“Sh-Sherlock?”  
  
“Hello? This is 999. What is your emergency?” The slightly static feminine vice whispered through John’s phone, which he ignored. His head felt like it was buzzing. His ears started ringing. His skin crawled. That voice.  
  
The one he’d heard in supermarkets from a few aisles down thinking it was him, only to end in disappointment. The sound that made is ears perk walking down the street only to belong to someone who looked completely different; Sherlock’s.  
  
“Hello? Are you there? Is everything alright?” John raised the phone to his ear, blankly staring at the door before realizing he still hadn’t replied.  
  
“Hm? Ah- yeah, wrong number.” He pushed the end button and lowered his hand again.  
  
“John, open the door.” The deep baritone voice carried through him, as if it was a wave crashing his body into a cliff side.  
  
John did as told, deft fingers fumbling with lock handles, undoing them one by one until he could turn the knob and swing open the hollow metal door that had a few dents in some spots and was always cold.  
  
“Oh my god.” Mesmerized eyes traveled over the man before him. Sharp cheek bones, cunning eyes, the deepest cupids bow he’d ever seen, a messy mop of dark curls, the palest skin on the entire fucking planet. It was Sherlock. His Sherlock.  
  
The past years rushed through his head, mostly pain and mourning stood out. Sudden anger fueled him to grab Sherlock's collar and push him forward until they fell in the hallway.  
  
" _YOU FUCKING BASTARD_." John swung his fist, feeling his knuckle crack as if made contact with Sherlock's cheek. " _HOW DARE YOU. I OUGHT TO FUCKING KILL YOU FOR REAL! BLOODY BASTARD_." Sherlock wretched his head back, almost making contact with the floor if John wasn't holding him so far above the ground.  
  
John huffed, fingers straining against the coat collar of the shocked man beneath him. He had the taller one pinned to the floor, all of his lower body weight weighing him down like an anchor. His fingertips ached from the pressure and his fist was sore.  
  
"John."  
  
"Don't you ' _John_ ' me, Sherlock Holmes. I thought you were _dead_. I _mourned_ you. I _fucking cried_ for you." Sherlock's eyes softened, looking hurt as he put a hand over the one holding onto him.  
  
" _Please_ , listen to me. Just for a minute. Give me time,  
and if you want me gone, then I'll leave." Sherlock's voice was so clam and steady considering the situation. It was so familiar. It made John's chest ache. He wanted to cry.  
  
They stayed like that for a moment; John sitting on Sherlock, on the brink of tears. Sherlock on the floor with a pleading look, which was alarmingly uncharacteristic and odd.  
  
"You were gone. For so long, you'd left. And you didn't even tell me." John swallowed feeling as if the lump in his throat would ease away if he did. It didn't. " _Why_?"  
  
Sherlock looked away, Shame covering every inch of his face. "Are you willing to listen?"  
  
"Are you going to leave afterwards?"  
  
"Only if you want me to."  
  
"Well I don't." John snapped back, flexing the hand he'd punched with. It was tender and would most likely be bruising soon. Sherlock smiled his genuine Sherlock smile and pulled Johns other hand off of him.  
  
-  
  
And so, for the next hour they sat in John's apartment. Sherlock telling his tale and explaining things, John nodding quietly and  respectfully paying attention as a million other things whizzed through his head. The soft light from the telly illuminated the room and gave a gentle background noise until Sherlock was done.  
  
"Um...wow."  
  
"Just wow?"  
  
"Well what do you want me to say? 'I'm sorry you went through all of that trouble, welcome back mate'? Because that's not how things work, Sherlock." John was trying to be empathetic towards Sherlock's situation as he still processed everything.  
  
"I know... I was expecting something along the lines of 'get the hell out, you jackass, I never want to see you again'." Sherlock leaned his elbows on his knees, looking at his hands and then back to John.  
  
John snorted. "I may be pissed, but I don't want you gone, not since I've found out that you're alive. I'm just... Dealing with things." He licked his lips and watched Sherlock.  
  
"Do you want me to go?"  
  
"For the last time, no, Sherlock. I do not want you to leave. Only when you want you may you walk through the front door."  
  
Sherlock smiled wide and nodded.  
  
"Alright everybody, here we go. Get ready; it's the _final_ countdown of the year. I'll see you all in a few minutes. Take it away, boys." They turned to see the woman on the telly turning around to face a band.  
  
"Is this one of those tradition things?" Sherlock asked, looking perplexed.  
  
"Yeah. Hold on a sec." John got up from where he was sitting on the corner of the bed and went to grab the bottle of champagne from his small kitchen's countertop and two glasses. He came back with it and popped it open, pouring the liquid into the glasses. "Here." He held one out to Sherlock.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"For the toast."  
  
"What toast?"  
  
"The one for the countdown."  
  
"Why do you-"  
  
"Just take the damn glass. I can't keep holding it all night." Sherlock reached out and took the glass, bringing it to his lips. "No! Not yet, you wait for the countdown and then drink."  
  
"Oh." Sherlock lowered the glass and looked to the telly. "Most of the band is drunk." He noted.  
  
"So is most of the planet." John rolled his eyes with a chuckle.  
  
"True."  
  
" _Woo hoo_! That was fantastic. Well done." They turned to the telly again. The woman was back and she was standing in front if a crowd of people also standing in front of a large screen with numbers were ticking down on it. The screen flickered to show the numbers, the camera from before was now showing in a small rectangle in the corner of the screen.  
  
"Only thirty seconds left, folks. Get ready. Find your kisses and your drinks. Raise them high and count with us!" The reporter jumped giddily in the small space and grabbed a mans had from out of view and pulled him towards her.  
  
John smiled to Sherlock.  
  
 ** _Twenty..._**  
  
"Kisses?"  
  
 ** _Nineteen..._**  
  
"Yeah. Some people kiss at zero."  
  
 ** _Eighteen..._**  
  
"Strange."  
 ** _  
Seventeen....  
_**  
"It's supposed to be good luck for the relationship."  
  
 ** _Sixteen..._**  
  
"People are so superstitious."  
  
 ** _Fifteen..._**  
  
"Yeah."  
  
 ** _Fourteen..._**  
  
"But I suppose it couldn't hurt anyone."  
 ** _  
Thirteen..._**  
  
"Kissing can hurt."  
  
 ** _Twelve..._**  
  
"How?"  
  
 ** _Eleven..._**  
  
"If you do it wrong."  
  
 ** _Ten..._**  
  
"It seems hard to do wrong."  
  
 ** _Nine..._**  
  
"Also braces."  
  
 ** _Eight..._**  
  
"Ouch." Sherlock flinched in sympathy, joining John on the foot of the bed as they watched the telly.  
  
Seven...  
  
"Damn straight."  
  
 ** _Six...  
_**  
Sherlock chuckled at the remark.  
  
 ** _Five...  
  
Four..._**  
  
"I think I'll do it."  
  
 ** _Three..._**  
  
John looked over at Sherlock who was watching the screen.  
  
 ** _Two..._**  
  
"Do what?"  
  
 ** _One!_**  
  
Sherlock leaned towards John and kissed him. It was a gentle touching of the lips. His eyes were closed.  
  
Sherlock sat straight again and raised his glass briefly before sipping the bubbly liquid. John stayed frozen, looking at Sherlock as if he had forgotten something.  
  
"Sneaky bastard." He muttered before tipping his head back with the glass and downing it all at once.  
  
A flicker of memory passed behind his eyes. He remembered his mother doing her nails at the kitchen table one time. She poured pink liquid onto a cotton swab and ran it over her nail, erasing the color. The liquid looked like it tasted good so he reached for the bottle. It smelled awful so he put it back. The champagne felt like the nail polish remover was going down his throat.

"That was nice."

"Sure was."

"What does that mean?" 

John glanced over to him before going back to the telly. The woman was snogging the complete hell out of the random man. "Whatever you want it to."

“Happy New Year, John.” Sherlock's eyes sparkled.

John huffed and rolled his eyes. “Happy New Year.”

"I hope our relationship, whatever it may be, does well within the next year."


	2. The Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back with John, they're in the flat, fast forward a few weeks since New Years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a shit writer but enjoy mother frickers

_Shlop_.

Oh god. Oh good lord. Jesus Chirst, _what is that?_

Wet. Wet and smelly and gross. And it had all just fallen out of the fridge onto his foot. It was unrecognizable in shape, color, and smell.

“For fucks sake,” He whispered under his breath. “Sherlock!”

“Yes, John?”

“What’s on me?” John demanded, looking at the man over his shoulder.

Sherlock paused a moment and assessed John. “Well, you’re wearing an aftershave that you bought recently, I love the smell by the way. And one of those jumpers that just happen to be my least favorite thing in the world at the moment, oh, and that watch you got from Mrs. Hudson-“

“I meant my foot.” He glared, pointedly moving his toes more into view of Sherlock.

“Oh. That.” Sherlock’s face fell, eyes going to the blob of who knows what. “I… think that’s Sarah Jane’s thigh muscle.” John pinched the bridge of his nose, elbow resting on the fridge door.

“Can you please explain to me… why it’s on my foot?” He screwed his eyes shut. Stay quiet, stay calm. Stay quiet, stay calm.

“I told Molly to come pick it up yesterday. I guess she never did.” He shrugged, blue robe slipping open as he did so.

“Just-“ John squared his jaw. “Just see to it that it get’s cleaned up, _okay?_ ” He slid his foot out from under the decaying muscle and grabbed a rag off the counter. He quickly hefted his leg up to the counter and washed his foot in the sink, drying it off quickly and walking past Sherlock in silence. John picked up the book he had resting open and upside down on his chair armrest and sat down with it in his lap, not really paying attention to the words.

Slowly, Sherlock moved with cautious steps towards John. He was quiet with the way he walked and quick enough there was a hand on John’s shoulder, sliding down to his collar bone and then up to the other shoulder, in a sort of hug from behind.

“John…?”

“Mmm?” He kept his eyes on the book with everything else trained on Sherlock.

“Did I do something wrong?” He felt Sherlock’s cheek press against his ear.

“Mn…No.” John replied coolly.

“But you’re mad.”

“Not quite.”

“Why?” John sighed and out the book down in his lap, thumb marking the page inside.

“I’m upset, Sherlock. Not mad, upset.”

“But _why?_ ”  Another hand wrapped around, matching the fist so both arms were hugging John.

“Because I would rather not have decaying flesh drop out of the fridge, where I store food to eat, mind you, and land on my feet.”

“Then I’ll buy a second fridge.”

“And put it where?” John turned his head slightly to look at Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock shrugged with the words.

“Then don’t buy one.” Silence for a moment.

“John.” Sherlock whined.

“What?”

“You’re still mad.”

“Upset.” John corrected him.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” John flipped his book open again.

Sherlock huffed a breath, letting go of John long enough to walk around the side of the chair and sit on the arm, laying back onto John’s lap and moving the book out of the way.

“I’m sorry.” John looked down at him, arm hanging over the side of the armrest opposite the one Sherlock was sitting on, and dropped the book with a quiet thud.

“Hm.”

“I really am.” Sherlock trailed a finger along John’s jaw.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Sherlock nodded, the backs of his fingers joining the first one.

“So what’s going to happen next time?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll make sure Molly picks it up next time?”

“Sherlock.” John warned him. Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh.

“I’ll leave the thigh muscle at St. Barts.”

“That’s right.” John smiled at him.

“Are you still mad?” He spread his hand on John’s face,

The thought of correcting Sherlock again passed briefly over his mind before he decided it better not to.

“No.”

“Good.” Sherlock reached down and grabbed the book John had been reading. “You hate this one.”

“I do not!”

“Do too. The way you read it says so.” Sherlock tossed it aside on the coffee table where it slid a few inches before crawling to a stop on the edge of falling.

“You’re right.” Sherlock pushed himself up.

“I’m always right.” He mumbled before kissing John.

They hadn’t done anything too physical since ‘The night of New Years’ and nothing had been established relationship wise either, but John had stopped dating and Sherlock had become less distant. Random things like putting his head on John’s shoulder, or in his lap, or guiding him by his hand instead of his elbow had become frequent and John didn’t question it.

But the kiss was a first.

Sherlock’s  hand went for the side of John’s face, finger tips slipping behind his ear and to his hair. It was a nice kiss; affectionate, not too soft, and intimate on an emotional level.  He pulled his mouth back, curls dancing on John’s forehead, and says “I would like for us to be in a relationship, John Hamish Watson.” Adding a small smile at the end.

“Ahh…” John trails off, take off guard by the request. “Erm, okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed that.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I did write that, yes you did read that, no I'm not the proudest person at the moment.


End file.
